Smoke gets in your eyes, and I’m left searching for hazel green reflections in your eyes. Let them tell me something I don’t know. Where have I been? So sick and then, is still in midair. I haven’t really moved on but a lonely life I could fill up would be nice. I rather make telepathic invoices to myself to pick up on later than see what’s new. I want tradition and namesakes and the past. Where do I fit now? I’m adjustable. Adapting, you could say.
petrichor - archive 